Nightmarish Prospects
by Arashi1
Summary: How would the Nine-Tails react to Naruto's pre-manga situation? A little advice from the mouth of the demon.


Title: Nightmarish Prospects  
  
Author: Arashi  
  
Warnings: Very very mild spoilers- as long as you've read the first chapter, you're pretty much alright.  
  
Disclaimer: Kishimoto Masashi owns Naruto, not me- I am not nearly as talented nor creative.  
  
Author's Notes: A twisted ficlet from Naruto's point of view. The Nine- Tails has a pretty strong influence on the poor boy, I think. And one's unconscious desires are expressed in one's dreams, or so Freud believed. Set before the start of the manga, so Naruto doesn't really know about the Nine-Tails yet. To those who doubt that Naruto would be scared of something so paltry- well, most of us were scared of the dark at some point of our lives, and Naruto is still a little kid, though that's easy to forget. And besides, one cannot decide how inspiration chooses to strike. _;  
  
Also unbetaed. C&C fully welcome- I tend to have really horrid grammar, to say the least. ^_^;  
  
  
  
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He was afraid of the dark.  
  
But that was, perhaps, poorly phrased. He was more afraid of what the night brought, than the night itself. Or if he was indeed frightened by nightfall itself, he didn't admit it; ninjas, of course, feared nothing. Even if they were a mere twelve years old, though he doubted that Sasuke had ever feared anything so tangible.  
  
He sometimes wished for a normal family. During the day, it never seemed to matter much- he spent as much time outside of his house as he could, and indeed, his classmates had often even expressed jealousy at his freedom. He never mourned his loss- his parents had been gone as long as he could remember, and he only longed for the idea and not the people. He supposed that he had once had some sort of caretaker- his early childhood recollections were full of memories of many different ninjas, none of whom ever stayed long enough for him to form an attachment to. When the night crept upon the village, he wished to be young enough to need someone to look after him, though he had never been granted anything but a sharp word.  
  
His dreams were always in red, and never in any other color. Red, the color of the chakra within him- and when he stopped to think about it, sometimes he made the connection. But the revelation always slipped through his mind like water off a sheet of glass and he never dwelled on it long.  
  
He dreamed of blood and violence; not wholly uncommon among those of his kind. In the line of ninjas, violence was a common stay throughout one's life, and having it bleed through to one's dreams was not unusual. However, he didn't dream of fighting faceless enemies for the honor of his village, nor did he dream of past enemies and previous battles. His dreams consisted of the death of his fellows.  
  
Sharp teeth tearing through the necks of those with bitter tongues. Powerful arms ripping off the heads of those whose eyes found him wanting. And in his dreams, he loved it. Loved the feeling of blood between his fingers and the copper taste rolling down his throat. Loved the silky sense of power and /loved/ the feeling of revenge.  
  
That scared him more than anything else. The niggling feeling in the back of his brain that whispered of such things; of power, of revenge, of the utter frailty inherent in human beings, and wouldn't he like to try. just. once? Like magic and everything would be better, then. No more dark looks and glares, and insults spoken a little too loudly. To just open a small little door and let the whispers grow louder.  
  
Sometimes he woke up trembling. He would pull the covers around himself and count the cracks in the wall until the glare of the sun peeked through the windows. Then he would allow himself to fall into the deep sleep of the exhausted, and would not wake until the sun had tread its path far into the sky, when he would curse and rush off to school, forgetting the events of the night before.  
  
However, the dreams gave him the unconscious realization that sometimes, when the whispers and sniggers had grown too loud and too bold and the adults pretended not to hear, all he had to do was reach in and-  
  
He never let himself think any further than that. It was always safer to pull on a smile and do something to deserve the snickers and taunts. He wanted, simply, for the dreams to stay dreams. He didn't want to enjoy the blood and the violence and the death.  
  
He was afraid of himself.  
  
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End file.
